Each Shining Hour (23 page)

The Third Degree

“W
ell, hello!”

Undaunted, Michelle straightened slowly and regarded Christine as an intruder. I, on the other hand, stood abruptly, a hasty move that cast a shadow of guilt over me. Before I knew it, I was doomed.

Michelle read my actions and sized up instantly that there was a clear connection between Christine and me. She changed gears fluidly, immediately walking toward Christine with a generous smile.

“Hi, I'm Michelle Herzenberg. I'm with Biotherics Pharmaceutical.”

Not to be outdone, Christine answered, “Hi, Michelle. I'm Christine Chambers. I'm with Watervalley Elementary.”

“So, I'm guessing you're not a patient of Dr. Bradford's?”

“Yeah, I guess that would be true.”

They continued exchanging pleasantries in a diplomatic, courtly manner. I stood by doing my best to appear nonchalant while these two did a thorough sizing up of each other under the
guise of gushing politeness. It was a conversation rife with all the subtle markings of one-upmanship and turf protection.

“Luke and I are old acquaintances from Vanderbilt,” Michelle said. “He had quite a reputation at the med school.” The message that “I knew him first” wasn't lost on Christine.

“So I've heard. You should have seen him play basketball at Mercer. He was a real sensation there as well.”

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. Christine was really stretching it. Once again, just as Connie and Estelle had done, it seemed that the women in my world felt free to talk about me as if I were offstage in a soundproof booth. Part of me wanted to hold up a sign that read, “Hi, I'm the Y chromosome in the room.” And while all the adoring praise was fun to hear, I plainly knew that the compliments were only a delivery system for the real points being made.

“Oh, how interesting. So, I guess you two have known each other a long time. You must be the reason no girl could ever get a date with him at Vandy? Did you follow him here from Atlanta?”

“No, I'm actually from here. Our paths have crossed over the years.”

“Really, you're from this place? Hmm.” There was a definite undertone of judgment in Michelle's response. Having sized up the situation, she decided it was time to retreat. But not before throwing one last volley. She turned to me, feigning a wounded tone.

“Luke Bradford, shame on you. You told me you only came here because they would pay off your loans. I can see you had lots of reasons.” With this she winked at me and proceeded to gather her things. She extended her hand to me as she left.

“Thanks, Luke. I'll see you again in a month or so. Christine, good to meet you as well.” But as she turned to leave, she offered me one last sly, sultry smile. Even as clueless as I was, I could still read that look: “You have no idea what you're missing.”

Christine's sweet, amiable face immediately de-glossed the second Michelle was out the door. She regarded me with the sort of vacant smile that you give a child to let him know how hard he'll be spanked after the company leaves. Her tone fell a half measure short of outright reprimand.

“Well. What was that all about?”

“What was what all about?”

Christine dropped her chin in a look of disbelieving reproof. “Excuse me. Have you been in a coma for the last ten minutes?”

For some reason, Christine's stern reproach struck me as hilarious. It had all been hollow drama, nothing more. No longer able to control myself, I laughed out loud. “No, actually I have been thoroughly entertained.”

Christine crossed her arms, offering a benign smile. “Oh, so you think this is funny?”

“Well, sure. What else would it be?”

Christine stared with a withering intensity.

“Okay, why is it I feel like a marshmallow over a campfire about right now?”

She smirked. “Don't try to be funny, Bradford.”

Again, I laughed robustly and walked to my chair, then plopped heavily into it, relaxed and amused. With arms still folded, she followed and sat in the wingback across from me. Despite her scrutinizing tone, Christine was wearing a repressed smile. I could see that she was miffed, but her intelligent, rational side was nagging at her, struggling to justify her emotions. It was a losing battle. The miffed side was winning. She stared at me silently, apparently thinking that this tactic might yield a confession. I wasn't biting.

“So, there's not anything further you'd like to tell me about her?” she asked.

I said nothing, which for Christine seemed to say everything. Then she did something completely unexpected. There was an unassuming drop of her chin and her face softened into a low, enticing smile. I could practically see the wheels turning. Subtly, she began to exert some considerable voltage of her own. She nimbly shifted in her chair, crossing her legs so that the top one bounced lightly in a delightful, flirtatious way. By imperceptible degrees she fluidly straightened her posture and ever so seductively pulled back her shoulders, allowing for a breathtaking tightening of her blouse across her generous curves.

This wasn't fair. In a matter of seconds she was reducing me to a big blob of slobbering protoplasm. I had done nothing, but now was ready to confess to anything. Soon I would be losing all meaningful motor control. I responded while I still had breath left.

“Wow. This is adorable. I'm seeing a whole new side of you. Christine Chambers, if I didn't know better, I'd say you're acting a little jealous.”

Her response was slow and assured. “Jealous? No. Curious? Sure. I mean, let's face it, she was looking at you like you were her favorite dessert.”

“Oh, that's ridiculous. She's a sales rep. She looked at me like I was an ATM.”

“You are so clueless, it's almost cute.”

“And you are basing this on what logic?”

“Well, let's see. You're a guy. You have a pulse. Naturally, your actions are suspect.”

I looked to the side, shaking my head. “That is so unfair. Look, she's just pushing her drugs. Sales reps come by all the time. They chat you up, they give you free samples, they ask you to dinner; it's all part of the routine. They're not required to be ugly.”

“Oh, so she asked you to dinner?”

“She did and I refused. Surely I get a few points for that?”

Christine spoke through a low, exasperated laugh. “Luke Bradford, you're just like every other man. Sometimes even more so. She sure seemed to know a lot about you.”

“Oh, come on, seriously. She said we knew each other from Vandy, but I don't remember her and told her as much. She probably boned up on a little of my history to break the ice.”

“So, you're saying that my first take on her as the misguided spawn of Satan might not be completely accurate?”

“I doubt she's given me another thought.”

“I doubt she has many extra to spare.”

“Hey, she came, she spoke, she left. As far as I know, her intentions were well-placed.”

“With the way she positioned that low-cut top right in front of your face, that wasn't the only thing that was well-placed.”

This was a valid point, but I wasn't about to concede anything. “Can't say I really noticed.”

Christine's eyes tightened. “So, you're telling me you were oblivious to her va-va-voom cleavage?”

It was time to put this discussion to rest. I rose from my chair, walked around the desk, and leaned against the front. I smiled warmly and spoke in a slightly teasing voice.

“Miss Chambers, surely you realize that I only have eyes for you.” Mentally I was also thinking, “and your va-va-voom cleavage,” but thought it best to leave that part off.

She stood, drew in nearer, and looked alluringly down as she ran her finger under the lapel of my lab coat. “So, are you trying to convince me that knighthood is still in flower?”

I brought my arms around her waist, pulling her close. “Well, I wouldn't go that far.”

Her voice still carried a faint mix of affection and reprimand.
“Careful, Bradford. You're still about a half step away from being sent to the principal's office.”

“Mmm, is that so? I believe I'm about a half step away from something much more pleasant.”

I leaned in to kiss Christine, but she withdrew slightly, studying me with a bemused smile.

“Problem?” I asked.

“Oh, I was just thinking for a moment. Trying to figure out if you're a frog or a prince.”

“If I start croaking softly at twilight, you'll have your answer.”

Christine shook her head, yet all the while she smiled at me adoringly.

“Bradford, do you ever think about growing up and acting like an adult?”

“Not if it means I have to get rid of my Spider-Man pj's.”

Before Christine could reply, my cell phone's blaring ring filled the room. I reached in my pocket to look at the caller. It was John Harris. I held the face of the phone toward Christine. “It's the uncle.”

I put it on speakerphone. “Hello.”

“Sawbones, if you can break free, come on down to the lake. I've got something I think you'll want to see.”

“Really? What is it?”

“A briefcase. An extremely old one.”

I told John I would be right there and hung up. Christine and I stared at each other. “Come with me,” I said. “This could be really interesting.”

“No, you go ahead. Just call me later and we'll figure out tonight.”

“You sure?”

“Sure. I'm going to head home.”

I gave her a quick kiss and departed, eager to learn more of John's discovery. The afternoon had been quite a piece of theater, much ado about nothing.

But I had missed the larger point. Christine's question about growing up had had an underlying serious intent. It was the first inquiry, a first hint of the deeper impulses of her heart and her desire to know what affections lay beneath my comic veneer. I would be foolishly slow to catch
on.

An Interesting Discovery

B
y the time I arrived at the lake, Sheriff Thurman was already there talking with John. Using the lowered tailgate of John's truck as a makeshift table, the two of them were examining the ancient briefcase. Their conversation stopped as I approached.

“Take a look at this, sawbones,” John said.

The soft leather case looked like a prop from a Hollywood movie set. It had a classic design with heavy stitching, a tarnished brass zipper, and a nameplate where the initials “HEK” were elaborately inscribed. Other than being caked in dust, it was in excellent shape.

“Where was it found?” I asked.

“Up in the roof section of the bandstand,” John replied. “When the boys were tearing the ceiling out earlier today, this plopped down. I Googled the manufacturer's name embossed on the inside. It was made by an Austrian company that went out of business in 1940. Given the vintage, we're speculating it may have belonged to our infamous murdered German.”

There was no masking my excitement. “Well, what was in it?”

John and Warren exchanged uneasy glances. Warren responded.

“Unfortunately, not a thing except for a few dead insects. There was an old access panel in the ceiling about twenty feet away from where it fell. I'm guessing Oscar, or somebody, got to the panel and flung it to the far corner out of sight. Looks like it has set there for years.”

“That's unbelievable,” I replied. “And no one thought to look up there during the investigation all those decades ago?”

Warren shrugged. “Apparently not. It was out near the edge where the roof slopes down and was probably hidden by the ceiling joist. Someone might have looked, but it wouldn't have been easy to see. Besides, I guess everybody assumed the briefcase, along with the gun and knife, were at the bottom of the lake. And then again, I've always heard a theory that there might have been a third person involved. It's just all hard to say.”

“By the way, Sheriff,” I said, “whatever happened to the German's remains?”

“He's buried in Rose Hill Cemetery. I heard tell that Sheriff Lewis tried to contact the state and federal governments about what to do with him, but with no positive identification, nobody took an interest. I guess the war had everyone's hands full. So, he was buried here at Rose Hill.”

My enthusiasm ebbed. In its own right, the briefcase was a fascinating discovery. But it shed no new light on what had happened and actually created new questions as to the fate of its contents. Nevertheless, Warren's mention of Sheriff Lewis prompted some questions.

“Warren, do you know about Frank Sanderson's files on the old murder mystery? You know, Lida's dad. He used to be a deputy.”

“Frank was retired when I first joined the department, but he would come around occasionally and visit. I heard he had an interest in the old bandstand murder even though it was a closed case.”

“Lida said something about it being a closed case, too. Why is that?”

“If memory serves, the incident was considered voluntary manslaughter. Statute of limitations in Tennessee is five years.”

I went on to tell both of them about going through the old murder file box, and more specifically about Frank Sanderson's notebook and the speculation about the three men and the diamonds. Warren listened quietly, carefully taking in all that I said. In the end, he shook his head.

“There's just not much telling about some kind of conspiracy, Doc. The whole part about the diamonds is probably nothing more than Watervalley imagination. As far as the three men you mentioned, well, they all had a few bones in the closet, so to speak.”

“How so?”

A wry grin spread across Warren's face, and with his large paw of a hand, he began to rub his chin. “You want the short version?”

“Sure.”

“Well, when you're sheriff, you tend to hear things that aren't always common knowledge. These guys were a little before my time, but I've heard talk. Seems that Haslem Hinson had an alcohol problem, Sheriff Lewis had a gambling addiction, and Raymond Simmons—well, he just had an attitude problem.”

“Attitude problem?”

“Eh, I'm not going to put a label on it, Doc. But suffice it to say that as long as he was president of the Farmers Bank, not a single black ever worked there. It's the typical story. He rose up
through the ranks, but his people were pretty much white trash. They seem to be the ones with the most hardened attitudes.”

I nodded.

“Still, you know, Doc, none of that points to the three of them being guilty of a crime. And you have to remember, in Watervalley one body always tells somebody. If diamonds had ever been found, we'd all know it by now.”

Again I nodded. Warren was smart and, regrettably, likely correct. Even still, I couldn't help but stare at the briefcase in front of me and wonder. If it did belong to the mysterious German, then why had he come to town seventy years ago looking for something so important that he was willing to kill for it?

I stopped short of divulging any further details about Oscar Fox's lack of official ID and my theory about his actions being in self-defense. It was largely speculation. There was nothing more to be discussed. I thanked John and Warren and left for home.

*   *   *

T
he weekend passed quietly with Christine and me spending considerable time together. We seemed never to be at a loss for things to talk about, which was good given the limited amusements available. We rarely discussed the future, which suited me fine. And thankfully, nothing more was said about Michelle Herzenberg, although I felt certain she was not forgotten.

With the arrival of warmer weather, Christine and I began to take long walks on the paths near the lake and spend hours at the farm. She talked of perhaps going horseback riding, something that held no interest for me. Angus continued to invite me to help milk the cows and I invariably declined. The rural life was growing on me, but only by degrees.

The changing seasons seemed to feed my hunger for travel, my love of faraway places and new experiences. It had been a gray
winter, cold and confining, warmed only by the wonderful hours I'd spent with Christine. Even still, I found myself occasionally doing random searches for flights out of Nashville to warm, sunny beaches or distant cities. I had accumulated a small amount of vacation time, but not enough to justify any major excursion. I longed to get away, but travel would have to wait until some obscure future date.

Before going to bed on Sunday evening I mulled over what Warren had said about the darker sides of the three men, trying to see how these factors might fit into the larger picture. I had little more than a broad theory, Frank Sanderson's drawing, and the one newspaper photo that actually tied them together. Once again, it seemed my investigation had reached a dead
end.